So I was busy yesterday and last night. Having this thing called fun. It’s nice: you should all try it sometime. Oh wait, you probably do.
I went for a walk with a friend I haven’t seen in a long time yesterday morning. We brought Sven and the weather was beautiful. Nobody can believe how good the weather is for October: “This’ll surely shorten the winter for us.”
Any way, I didn’t come here to talk about the weather.
It was so nice to see her. I’m going to call her Sheryl Sandburg because she’s a real career woman. And stunning. She’s one of those women who looks expensive. Classy is an understatement.
We had a lovely chat, probably the first time we’ve properly chatted in a long time. It’s amazing how a bout of depression can bring your friends back into your life. One particular nugget that emerged from the conversation was that not everybody feels like this. I thought everybody felt like I do, at some point. I thought it was normal to want to activate your Get Out Clause and to dread getting up in the mornings. But apparently it isn’t.
Then I had my eyebrows done. That was sore. This time last week I was hunting out pain, real piercing physical pain but yesterday I was twitching to escape it. They look good. I look good at the moment, which sounds like I’m full of myself and I’m really not but my skin is spot free and I’ve lost a bit of my summer-in-America weight. I’m sure if anyone saw me (with make up on of course) they’d think I was fine. I’m still not fine, but I’m finer than I was this time last week.
ElsaDaughter and I spent the night in the tres chic abode of Gwyneth Paltrow and her younger sister Grace Kelly. What an evening of girly wonder. It was so much fun watching Strictly and listening to hits of the nineties: reminiscing about what pub or boy each song reminded us of and inflicting “those were the days” stories on the rep for the younger generation. I can’t thank those girls enough for last night. Then ElsaDaughter and I shared a bed and kicked each other all night, not intentionally, not on my behalf anyway.I didn’t really sleep, waking up cold and damp and panicked because I didn’t know where I was and what I was waiting on my alarm to go off for. Talk about setting your clock against the future.
I had a message from a long lost friend last night too which made me glow inside like a twenty four year old drinking wine in a two bedroomed apartment in Dublin City centre before a night on the town, ending up in Copper’s. God I miss that girl. She’s always been so stylish – Long Lost Style Queen. If there’s one thing the loss of that friendship taught me it was sistas before mistas, but more about Father Rory Best at a later date.
Posh Spice et sa famille came home today. Phew. I’m going to spend the day with her tomorrow. I need her help to organise a few things. She’s good at that, being a transponster and all.
The Strictly results show is on. Jenny is gone. I can’t stand Mrs. Brown’s Boys. Actually I’ve only ever seen half an episode of it but what I saw made me cringe to the point that I wanted to get the ferry over to England, march down to the BBC and show them what a real life Irish woman looked like. Maybe I’m an intellectual snob but it’s shite. And I’m right.
I like Caroline Flack. I like her double upper ear piercing and the little star tattoo in between and I like that she is a bit vulnerable and imperfectly gorgeous. She’s getting all the best outfits so far, like Sophie Ellis Bextor last year. Quirky rules.
A friend mentioned to me at the weekend that it might be an idea to have bloods done again, specifically for hormone imbalances, she suggested it could be an early menopause. This isn’t the first time I’ve been offered this as a possible explanation. It would make sense with the sweats. I don’t know how I feel about this. A bit sickened? I don’t think I want anymore kids, never say never and all that but I’m pretty sure I can live without going back to night feeds and day stresses. I don’t think I’m very maternal. I don’t really like kids, not strangers’s kids anyway. I really get riled up when misbehaving kids aren’t reprimanded by their parents when they’re in public. “Oh look at my perfect first born!” “Make room for my Quinny.” “Oh look how adorable little Marcus is with his snotty nose staring into your face in a doctor’s surgery waiting room!”. I don’t give a shit about your small person anymore than I give a shit about you. Just because I have a vagina does not mean I go gooey inside at the sight of any immature human.Come back to me when you can construct a sentence and have a personality. Unless of course you’re the child of an adult I love, then chances are I’ll love you too.
So maybe I’m drying up as woman? How will that feel? I don’t think I’m ready to think about the possibility that the social construct of my gender could be ripped from my very uterus. If I’m on the menopausal heap will I be useless to the world? Of course not, but society may think so.
Which leads me onto the next bullet point of the day (I’ve started making notes on my phone throughout the day) – female sexuality. I’m too tired to explore fully my views, conscious and subconscious, on women’s sex lives including my own but I guess the notion of the link between my reproductive health and my sexuality crept into my head today. I’m a sexually active young woman but how is that linked to my ability to make babies? Just say I found out I am going through an early menopause (and that’s just a remote possibility that’s cropped up- I think I mentioned it to my GP and she thought it was unlikely), would I feel as confident in my sexuality? At some point, all the women I went through puberty with will go through the Great Change: will that make us less womanly? Again, of course not but if we are to believe the media and pervasive social norms we’ll all be Anne Widdecombe instead of Helen Mirren. (No offense Anne, I’m going on how the media portrays her – see, I do know what a collective noun is.) Fuck them, I hope I’m still getting laid when I’m no longer a breeding mare. This is one I need to come back to when I’m… when I’m what? Not as easily tired out I guess.
I promised myself when I started writing this that I wouldn’t shy away from any topic but that’s easier said than done when you know My Lady, the Queen’s Mother is going to read it and find out all your dirty little secrets. There’s a lot I haven’t touched on yet but I hope to be able to in time. But as you may have guessed from allusions in past episodes – i was raped when I was sixteen. I hate that word: “raped”, not “sixteen”, although I’m not too fond of that either seeing as my maths is just about good enough to know I’m almost double that now – God knows I’m not alone. I am constantly shocked by how many women I know have been “sixteened”, that’s my new word for it. I’m sure my psychologist wouldn’t approve of euphemisms – “Own the hurt Dotty”. Fuck off. Of course I never reported it. Posh Spice cleaned me up and being sixteen (that’s not a euphemism, just my age – confusing), I told nobody but my closest friends, usually when I was drunk and in a screaming mess of shame, guilt and grassy grottiness (remember the smell of wet grass I mentioned?) I’m not alone, I’m not unusual and I very much doubt I’m the only one still trying to get my twisted brain around it fifteen years later. psychiatrist number three reckons I have a lot of “work” to do on it. Why should I have to work on it? Shouldn’t he? It impacts everything I do to myself and the relationships I’ve had with all those unfortunate Dotty exes, poor dudes, finding themselves entangled with spoiled goods. But this time I’m going to get it right.
This has been a good weekend and that’s because of good friends and family – my “You’ve Got the Love” title is self evident. I ever knew I was so loved. I really never knew it. That makes me wonder if that means that all the people I love don’t know how much I love them. I should tell them more. And not just if I think they’re going Dotty, like me.
I wanted to catch up with The Librarian and another friend today but I got sidetracked by …
I’m back an hour later. We just Facetimed with my Cousin Who is Like a Brother and his effortlessly beautiful wife who I wish was my sister in the States. God, I miss them. It’s funny how familiar everything is on the screen even though it’s seven thousand kilometres away. My other family. I need to write about the American Dotty, she’s much less neurotic than Irish Dotty. Maybe the mosquito bites contain some sort of natural tranquiliser.
One last thought before I go clean my face (make up and all on today, the state of her and the price of turnips!)… Earbuds, earphones, whatever you call them. Will someone please tell me if there is a human on the planet who is not under the age of three who has ears small enough to fit the average earbud? I had mine in today while driving (is that legal?) and my ear holes (what do you call that bit, to be anatomically correct?) felt like they had badgers burrowing whatever badgers burrow into them. That’s just an aside but one with which I feel many of you will agree. And I didn’t finish that sentence with a preposition.